


The Plan

by Ranowa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Episode: s01e02 The Blind Banker, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Fluff, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Jealous Sherlock, John Watson is a Good Friend, M/M, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes and Experiments, Sherlock is a Brat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:01:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25059664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranowa/pseuds/Ranowa
Summary: Sherlock has a plan, on how best to soften up his brand new, absolutely incredible flatmate.A plan that relies on his deductive prowess, his unparalleled genius... and one dependable house plant named Milgram.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 55
Kudos: 241
Collections: 10 Years of Sherlock





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (...or five times Sherlock had to remind John to feed Milgram, and one time he didn't have to.)
> 
> A short fluff fic for the 10th anniversary of Sherlock! I haven't even been around for a year, but- what. a. year. it's been, and the fandom has been so incredibly warm and welcoming to me, and absolutely the deciding factor in me choosing to stick around for more :)
> 
> I don't often post WIPs, but I'm hoping posting chapter 1 will get me to keep working on this instead of the angst idea brewing in my head, as I wanted to get this up for the 10th anniversary month. Happy reading!!!

Sherlock readied his plan to be rolled into motion the very first morning.

John trudged back in just after nine, with his jacket over his shoulder and rubbing at his heavy, bloodshot eyes. He looked especially beaten down and exhausted, his hair on end and his shirt still wrinkled and splattered with dirt, with a faded bruise on his cheek that hadn't had time to form the night before.

His tired eyes passed straight over Sherlock as if he was little more than an inanimate object, lounging long and lazy on the sofa, and he thudded over instead to sink straight into his chair.

"Well," he announced, his voice heavy. "I guess that's over, then."

"Obviously."

John rolled his eyes, not looking particularly impressed. "Yeah, well, turns out when a girl asks for an exciting date, she means to the new Thai place instead of Italian. She's not quite so keen on being kidnapped by-" He broke off to scowl, his mouth twitching as he rubbed at his eyes again. "-Korean bloody mobsters."

"Chinese," Sherlock corrected mildly. He closed his eyes again, resquirming himself deeper into the sofa. "Do try to keep up, John, that _was_ the focal point of the entire case."

"Yeah, well, sorry, I guess I tend to get a little absentminded after being pistol whipped." He rubbed his face again with a long, jaw-cracking yawn. "Sarah's all right, at least. Thanks for... turning up. Helping us out."

Sherlock waved at the words, brushing them away. Irrelevant. Of course he'd come. The case had needed solving, yes? A case wasn't solved mid-kidnapping. Nor was it solved with Sarah Sawyer and John in the hands of Chinese mobsters.

He'd deduced all of this already, in the fallout of the case last night... quite obvious, really. Sherlock had returned home quickly after, the crisis entirely solved, and expecting John to follow. Because the crisis had been solved, had it not? Criminals, all arrested. Case, neatly solved. Priceless artefact, soon to be returned. Sarah Sawyer a little worse for wear- and he _was_ apologetic that she had been caught up so violently in the case, though he wasn't quite sure how to say it- but she was quite all right, in the end. Also certainly never wanting to go on a date with John again, but quite all right.

All resolved.

Sherlock had been extraordinarily disappointed when, after lingering for himself in the dark sitting room for well over half an hour, over the moon with his own cleverness and positively _buzzing_ with post-case excitement, and-

He'd realised John did not intend to follow him after all.

Hence... the plan.

He waited a minute more, hoping inquiring minds would investigate without requiring him to broach the subject. John, however, spent his time doing precisely nothing but sitting there in his chair, blinking up at the ceiling, and looking like he wanted to go to sleep.

Well, he supposed that did make some measure of sense. John _had_ had quite the night. Not even Sherlock couldn't require his helpermate to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed after two straight all-nighters that culminated in a violent assault, kidnapping, and attempted murder.

He cleared his throat, and broached it himself.

"Milgram needs watering."

"Mil..." John furrowed his brow, at last roused. He shifted minutely in his chair, his hand still half-covering his face. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Milgram," he repeated. "Needs watering once a day, actually. Very high-maintenance; I hope you don't mind."

John blinked again, very slowly. He stared at Sherlock with those bright, navy eyes,, then searched about the room. following the absentminded waggle of his fingers. His face did a lovely, exasperated sort of spasm.

"Are you talking about that... _thing?"_

 _Honestly._ "John!" Sherlock swiveled upright, swinging his long legs off the sofa to fold himself in two to stare at his ridiculous flatmate. "That is not a thing. That is a _Calathea lancifolia_. Native to Brasil, an absolutely incredible specimen, and absolutely _vital_ to my experiments. And it will be treated with the proper respect!"

John continued to look at him as if he might've had a stroke. "And this-" He stopped, licking his lips. "This Canada fancyfolia is... named Milgram."

"Yes, it is, John, _do_ try to keep up."

John spent several seconds staring alternately between Sherlock and the house plant, a very unusual, prickly thing, an array of red-backed green leaves that were durable and hardy. In their native habitat, they had much use as a building and storage material. There was any number of experiments that Sherlock could do, with the leaves of a _Calathea lancifolia_.

Not that John looked particularly impressed by this knowledge, but that was all right. In due time.

"...you do realise that I'm not going to take care of- Cana-"

"Milgram."

 _"Milgram,_ " John sighed, "for you. Yes? Christ, it's like getting a child a puppy- you have to take care of him. It. You can't be texting me to come home from work just because you can't be arsed to get up to water it, or, or- _whatever_ you do with plants. Your _plant_ , your responsibility, Sherlock-" he stopped, staring across the room in ever increasing bemusement. "When did you even get this? _Where_ did you even get this _from?_ I was only gone a few hours! What, did you break into the bloody zoo? I've never even seen something like that before!"

Sherlock deigned not to answer, instead letting his gaze just linger on the ceiling, and John, of course- John gave in right away. It hadn't been long at all, but John had already learned to pick his battles, and that the invasion of an extraordinary species of plant into the flat wasn't one worth fighting.

"...Okay," John said, when the silence had stretched on just long enough that Sherlock almost thought the subject to be dropped. "I'll make you a deal, Sherlock. I'll water- uh, Milgram-"

"Milgram requires watering every day, John, as well as-"

"-and in exchange, you'll let me take a look at your neck."

Sherlock started, a hand jumping to the warm wrap of his scarf. _What?_ No. This was not part of the plan!

But John was already smirking when Sherlock looked to him, still tired but now particularly pleased with himself, even as he worked himself up out of the chair to peer curiously at Milgram. "You ran off last night before anyone could get a proper look at you. Don't look like that, I saw you wrestling with that bloody assassin, you were strangled, Sherlock! That can cause internal damage; you _always_ need to be looked at after something like that."

"I-"

But John was gone, now, already off to the kitchen to half-fill a glass of water, looking amused and fond and exasperated all at once. Sherlock swallowed down his protest, because while he was still familiarizing himself with John's many expressions, he already knew this particular one very well, and it promised that there was no room for argument.

Sherlock groaned.

His throat _was_ raw this morning. It was true. He slid his fingers underneath his scarf, palming the hot skin of his throat, tender and still upset with old bruises. Oh, John really was going to throw a fit at this one, wasn't he? Doctors alway tended to get very fussy about injuries in such a delicate place, and John had already proven to be especially wary about injuries to Sherlock's person in general. He... _cared,_ for reasons he was still struggling to properly discern. After all, as John had been so quick to illustrate on this case, they were not friends. They were flatmates, with John occasionally conscripted into the role of live-in physician. John was not supposed to care like this. But he did. He did, and it was going to be an ongoing experiment to best thoroughly understand why.

This was not going to be pleasant _at all._

 _Well_ , Sherlock thought, his scarf hauled free and let to pool downwards on the floor _._ He settled himself in, sore and exhausted himself, and prepared to face the music. _You win some, you lose some._

At least The Plan: Stage One had succeeded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! <3 
> 
> (Milgram is a Rattlesnake Plant, chosen for several reasons, but... mostly just because of the name. Also, we know if Sherlock got a plant, it'd be something exactly that ridiculous. Want to know the explanation behind Milgram's name? Keep going! But the short of it is, Sherlock's a nerd and so am I~)
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr!](https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for all the comments/kudos!!! Look, I can actually write quickly when it's not 8k long angst chapters :D

Sherlock wilted, and withered, and very slowly expired due to sheer boredom.

And then, Lestrade texted him with a case.

A _case,_ John!

He pulled on his coat with a spin and a flourish, bouncing up on the balls of his feet to whirl about right there in the space of his sitting room. A case, a _case,_ an eight out of ten! Lestrade was lost at sea; it was _brilliant!_ "It's a locked room burglary, John, and all for a counterfeit painting? Why go to such trouble for a counterfeit? It's glorious, I'm sure of it, it's going to be- John! Come on, John!"

John, however, was the problem.

Because John was _just sitting there._

Sitting there, right in his chair, sipping morning tea. He was looking at Sherlock, at least, his face a cross between tolerant amusement and fondness, but that was all he was doing. Sitting there calmly, looking at Sherlock. He wasn't making any move to get up at all- he wasn't even moving to finish off his tea.

John quirked an eyebrow when Sherlock looked at him. "Remember?" he prodded, and now he actually looked _amused._ Clearly, there was an elephant in the room. "Christ, Sherlock, I told you three times, I'm going to a conference this weekend. Five days, in Dublin? My train leaves in an hour?"

"Oh." No, Sherlock didn't remember. Must've deleted it- obviously; why would he bother to archive something like this? No matter. Irrelevant. "You won't go, obviously. Now we've got a case!"

"No, Sherlock," John said, almost teasing, now. He smiled faintly, looking at him with the sort of patience one might treat a small child with. " _You've_ got a case. Remember, I told you this part twice, I can't just _not go._ This is my job."

"So get another one. You're overqualified as it is." Sherlock didn't understand; it could not be that John was worried about finding another job, was it? Certainly not. Or perhaps- oh, _god,_ he didn't have the patience for this, there was a _case-_ "Come _on,_ John, this case promises to be interesting, it-"

" _This'll_ be interesting! This conference! That I told you about days ago! Sherlock-" John kneaded a hand into the bridge of nose, and he actually looked a bit annoyed, now. "All right. I'm not going because it's my job, I'm going because I _want to go,_ Sherlock. And because I have a life outside of being at your beck and call as your- sounding board, or fetcher of your phone, of whatever role it is you think I play here."

John did actually look irritated, now, his jaw clenched and one thumb jittering against his tea. As if this was something he'd said before, or had tried to say before, and this was the final straw rather than the start of a conversation. And Sherlock didn't know why. But what he did know was the crime scene was waiting, and if he dallied for too long Anderson would contaminate it like the idiot that he was, and his interesting goldmine of a case would be _ruined._ He didn't have time to waste here, forming a deduction about why on earth John would insist on feigning interest in something as dull and mundane as a GP conference.

"...okay? Sherlock? You listening?"

What?

John let out a very long-suffering sigh, tilting his head to the back of his chair. "I don't understand how someone can be so smart and so _\- this._ Sherlock, I said this means you can't be texting me to come pass you a pen or meet you at Barts or water your bloody plant. I'll be in Dublin, yeah? For five days. I won't come, not even if the world's on fire. _Okay?"_

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. First at the metaphorical whimsy- _why,_ pray tell, would he call John if there was a _fire-_ and then, in offense at the entire dreadful premise of it al.

John was going to his conference, then. And Sherlock's standard methods of persuasion were not going to be enough to block it, this time.

This wouldn't do. This wouldn't do _at all._

"Okay," he agreed sourly, and thusly began to consider how best to continue The Plan.

* * *

The case ended up being not quite as good as Lestrade's text had promised- it hadn't ended up being a locked room after all- but it still promised to be a decent enough puzzle. It was the theft of a counterfeit painting, after all. Why steal a counterfeit painting? Why go to such lengths for a painting that one could not sell?

While Sherlock did not have his conductor of light available to best focus his ideas, it still promised to be a thrilling enough case to keep him occupied. And _John,_ busy with dull people and dull panels and dull, dull, _dull_ things, didn't have the slightest idea what he was missing.

The day came to a close with Sherlock set up in an empty conference room at Scotland Yard, joined by Lestrade and surrounded by a sea of diagrams and maps and list, pouring over it all for that one detail that would just make it _click._ Well- _Sherlock_ was. Lestrade had given in sometime ago to pillow his head in his arms, half-empty cup of coffee cradled in his hand, to try not to fall asleep at the table.

Useless. _Useless,_ the lot of them!

"There's really only so much I can do when you're researching German Renaissance art and I don't speak _bloody German,_ Sherlock."

"Oh," he sighed, squeezing a hand to the bridge of his nose. "Did I say that aloud?"

 _"Yes."_ Lestrade glanced up idly, barely even bothering to raise his head. His next grumble came out muffled. "You're so much more pleasant to be around when your handler is here. Where is he, again?"

Sherlock sniffed. John was not his _handler..._ and more to the point, John did not speak German, either. Though his presence still would've been appreciated. "Dublin. Or Italy. Don't remember- doesn't matter." He sat for a moment, considering, then snapped up to grab for the stacks on the other side of the room, the spark of an idea's ember catching fire. "He insisted on going to a conference. I don't know why, it sounded dreadfully boring, he even _looked bored_ , but he abandoned me for it." No, no, _no,_ this wasn't right, this wasn't what he was looking for- "Gavin! Coffee!"

Lestrade still didn't bother to so much as lift his head. He looked about as bored as Sherlock felt, and he didn't make any move whatsoever to pour him any coffee.

 _Useless_ , he seethed.Barely of any more help than Anderson himself.

 _"Maybe,"_ Lestrade suggested, with the sort of tone that said it wasn't really a suggestion at all, "John's annoyed because of that article. Remember the one? You two found a woman that had been kidnapped by her husband, and it called you the genius detective and him your bachelor assistant?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes a second time. Tabloid drivel. Why would he ever waste his time filling his hard-drive with such rubbish? _This_ was why no cases ever got solved around here without him; here he was, actually investigating, while everybody else wasted their time with tabloid magazine fluff articles. _Nonsense._ Why would John care, anyway? John wasn't his assistant.

"Or _maybe,"_ and he was still talking? Why was he still talking?, "he's still mad about that case last week, where you texted him out to a crime scene while he was at work? You said it was an emergency, and you wanted him to loan you his pen? Because ours weren't _good enough?"_

Sherlock barely glanced up from the documents now spread in his lap. "That was an emergency. None of yours had ink that bled properly. I needed to test... what?"

Because Lestrade was looking at him, now. The way John often did when he was losing his patience, suggesting he'd said something stupid, or Not Good. Like there was _something_ obvious in the room that everyone else had seen, and Sherlock was the one to miss it. Almost the manner in which John had been looking at him with this morning, then.

God, he hated feeling stupid.

When just sitting there in silence did not magically yield Sherlock a lightbulb of understanding, Lestrade heaved a very long, loud groan, one that weighed with exasperation in every syllable. "I mean, really," he muttered to himself, working his way up to his feet. "Idiots, the both of you."

_"What?"_

"All I'm saying is that maybe he feels a little taken advantage of. Maybe him ditching you will get you to stop taking him for granted."

"I don't take John for granted!"

"Yeah," Lestrade chuckled, "you do." He snatched up the empty cups of coffee, offering up a half-hearted salute. "Don't steal anything while I'm gone."

Sherlock huffed under his breath, silent as he watched Lestrade leave. Taking John for granted? Ridiculous. This had been the entire point of the Milgram experiment, after all... which, admittedly, was not working out as well as he had hoped. Not if John could so easily abandon him for five days straight, for what truly sounded like the most _boring_ medical conference to have ever been conceived.

But perhaps...

He paused again, fingers linking even tighter together under his chin.

Perhaps Lestrade, in all of his mediocrity, did have something of a point.

* * *

_John, I need you -SH_

_Searching the suspect's flat tonight, require assistance -SH_

**I told you I can't come**

Sherlock smirked.

The reply had come in not even two minutes.

That didn't sound like a very interesting or enthralling conference, did it?

Just another nudge...

_I require a second set of hand's -SH_

_A partner's, rather than an assistant's -SH_

He waited.

He tapped his foot and waited some more.

He texted the address, and waited _even more._

Sherlock scowled, dropping his stubbornly blank mobile into his lap. Did he want an apology? Was that what he was waiting for? Or some other sort of nudge? Surely not the former; surely Sherlock was not expected to sink to the level of such sentimental tripe. It wasn't as if Sherlock had written that dammed article. What did it matter, anyway, what other people thought? Other people were idiots. There was a reason Sherlock wanted nothing to do with them.

But then, John was an idiot, and he very much wanted something to do with John. So.

Sherlock glowered, tapping his thumb faster and faster into a nearly unsustainable cadence, impatience growing in his chest. _Damn it,_ this was too hard.

He played his trump card.

_Milgram also requires your immediate assistance -SH_

_I won't be home all evening. He needs you, John! -SH_

Once again, Sherlock was then left to sit silently. Waiting wordlessly as he smoked in a back alley, positioned just so to get a glimpse of when the suspect left his flat and gave him free reign. He smoked and he sat and he waited, and no reply came.

* * *

The search was simple enough. He did not actually need John for backup, though the lookout would have been highly appreciated, and he picked the lock and his way into the flat for a full night's worth of investigation. The suspect shouldn't be back into morning, not if his suspicions were correct, and that left Sherlock with more than enough time to make himself a cup of tea, fetch a snack from the cupboards, and settle in to look for evidence.

There was nothing quite like a night with takeaway, tea, and a case at Baker Street, no. But this was a close enough second best.

Or, it was.

Until footsteps hammered in the corridor outside, and Sherlock jumped right out of his skin.

_"John!"_

John stood there in the doorway. Right there, breathless and damp and ragged all over from from a sprint to catch the last ferry of the night, his luggage exchanged for the shape of his gun underneath his jumper.

His face was exhausted, and his eyes were brighter than they'd been all week.

"You're a mad git," he panted, the heel of his hand pressed to his chest. "You know that?"

Sherlock could do nothing but beam back.

John waved his mobile at him as he strode inside, kicking the door back shut. "Told them I had an emergency with Milgram. Got lots of well-wishes that my son would be all right and promises to see me next time."

Oh, lovely, clever John. Sherlock smirked to himself. What happened to him wanting to go to the conference, then?

"That's incredibly naughty of you," he murmured, allowing himself a wicked grin. Of course he'd been right. He was _always_ right. "You ought to be ashamed, John Watson."

"Yeah? Well, you ought to be ashamed of the fact that you just broke into someone's flat and apparently turned me into a sodding accomplice, but here we are." He yawned, a long, jaw-cracking yawn, and shuffled some of the papers into his own lap, complete with a side-eye at the cup of tea.

Several minutes passed, with nothing to break the silence but the occasional clink of his cup of tea, and the shuffle of papers between them as they searched for the figurative smoking gun.

"Sherlock?" John prodded, just long enough into it that they had found a rhythm. "You now have my permission to use Milgram to get me out of any GP conference that you like in the future."

"I'm sorry? I have your _permission?"_

"You do _not_ get to use him to get me out of any conference concerning trauma or emergency medicine," John finished, a small smile playing at his lips. "And yes. I did water him before I came here."

Sherlock's own triumphant grin wilted, just a little bit, and his smug sanctification wilted with it.

Not a surefire victory, then.

Oh, progress had assuredly been made. This was not a defeat or a failed experiment, by any means!

But there was still a limit. He still could not quite tempt John away from _everything._

But perhaps... this would be an acceptable compromise. _Perhaps._ After all, at least this time, Sherlock wasn't to be abandoned for something _dull._

It also so happened that Sherlock would probably be able to make quite a lot of use, out of John keeping his emergency medicine knowledge up to date. But _that one_ was neither here nor there- not unless he wanted John to start fussing, again. John _really_ did not like it when Sherlock wound up with an injured transport.

Sherlock tempered his formerly wicked grin into one that edged into something softer, and nodded his head back in acceptance.

"I'm sure Milgram will be thrilled," he said, and handed John his now tragically empty cup. "Now go raid the fridge for me- I've a suspicion that what we're looking for is masquerading as a milk carton. And then get us some more tea."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! <3 
> 
> Next up is The Great Game!
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr!](https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments/kudos!!! As promised, TGG chapter!
> 
> WhhhHHooPS looks like I spilled a bit of angst all into your fluff salad...

They got back from the pool together, cold, wrapped in garish orange shock blankets, and silent, at well past one in the morning.

Sherlock's head hurt, from the inundation of flashing police lights and the wail of sirens. His head hurt, his eyes hurt, and the crash of adrenaline had left him shaky and nauseous for hours in a way that was utterly unforgivable.

He'd wanted to go home for hours, and now he was here, and he didn't feel remotely better at all.

John seemed to be in a similar sort of mood. Tight-lipped and sullen, his shoulders slumped as he trudged inside with the weight of what looked like the world on his shoulders. He'd been checked over the paramedics even more aggressively than Sherlock had, refused a ride to an A&E through sheer stubbornness alone, and finally been let go with instructions to come in if he experienced any bouts with dizziness, headache, or severe nausea. They were still waiting on the blood test results, to see what Moriarty had drugged him with.

Sherlock had his educated guesses. John did not seem all that curious as to the answer.

Lestrade hovered uncomfortably in the doorway, watching in silence as John just collapsed into his chair. Sherlock flopped himself over the sofa with little more than an eye roll, and molded himself into the cushions with no intention to ever leave again. He could still smell the faintest hint of ash from the explosion earlier that week. Mycroft's _professional cleaners_ could sod off.

The inspector coughed twice, seeming torn between wanting to go and wanting to stay. "Right," he said, shifting in palpable discomfort. "Well, you two look... done in. Really. I'll just- pop in tomorrow, then? After you've gotten some sleep?"

John gave an affirmative sort of grunt, head tilted back to his chair. He made no further attempt to speak at all.

Which left it up to Sherlock.

He groaned.

"Lestrade," he muttered, right into the cushion. This was a good cushion. Good, solid, dependable cushion. "The case is now over. I haven't slept in days. If you leave now, then I'm going to bed, and not coming out of it for three days."

"That... uh. Really doesn't sound health-"

"He's saying if you want his statement, you need to get it now, Greg."

There was another short silence. Sherlock grinned.

Exactly the point, yes. John Watson truly was a lifesaver.

Lestrade dawdled for several moments on, obviously still torn; even with Sherlock's head still buried into the sofa, he could feel his gaze lingering on him. He desperately wanted to sleep and lick his wounds in private, but his room was _so far away,_ and walking that far was, at the moment, not going to happen.

It seemed they were doing this, then.

He listened with his face still in the pillow, archiving and storing the words as John described in a long, tired monotone how he had ended up wearing a Semtex vest poolside. He'd already deduced the shape of the story on his own, and the small details were unnecessary seasonings that did nothing but confirm his own guesses.

Confirm his own guesses, and add fuel to the fire.

Being ambushed and drugged on the street, just when they thought the case was ending. Waking up in the cold pool with the explosives already wired, and Moriarty in his ear. Moriarty's warm, cheerful accent, explaining and promising in very exact detail how he would do to all the pieces of John's body, and what precisely he would do to Sherlock, if John was to disobey.

Sherlock was going to kill Jim Moriarty.

It was simply a fact of life, now. As surely as the grass was green, and the earth went around the sun (or vice versa), Sherlock was going to kill Jim Moriarty.

That was the only way this case ended.

When John reached the part explaining how he had first made his entrance, how he had been forced to pretend to _be_ Moriarty, there was a low intake of breath from across the room. John shifted in his chair, his voice low and tense, trying very hard to betray nothing.

Sherlock rolled his eyes into his pillow.

"It was transparent," he called out, waving a hand blindly to the room at large. "No need to feel guilty, John; I was aware of the ruse the moment you first appeared. Don't be ridiculous."

"...Right," said John.

It had been transparent, truly. Obviously. Thinking back on it now- it was Moriarty's playbook exactly, speaking to him through another's voice, playing the game one step ahead. It had been so _obvious,_ and if he'd been given more than three seconds to deduce it, he would've seen it right there on John's face what was happening.

He hadn't had more than three seconds to deduce it.

Right then, in that instant-

Sherlock grimaced again, still safely facedown, and swallowed the surge of self-loathing back into his throat. Disgust turned into rage, thick and poisonous and coating the inside of his veins like sludge.

He was going to _kill_ Jim Moriarty.

"Were you really going to shoot the explosives? Sherlock?" Lestrade hesitated, sounding nearly upset. "The bomb squad finished looking at them. They were all _real_. You.. you would've-"

Sherlock waved a hand again, cutting him off with a gesture into blind space, and while he was at it, giving up the ghost on the pretense of ignorance. He wormed himself around at last, squirming onto his side instead of his back. It was still dark inside, only the faintest glow of street lamps streamed in from outside, and Lestrade's face looked pale and wan while John was almost unsettlingly blank. "It was a bluff. Moriarty didn't even want to kill me, not really. He wants to keep playing. Can't do that if I'm dead."

"You're sure of that, then," John said suddenly. He flexed his hand in his lap, almost a fist, his jaw tight. "You've got him all figured out."

 _"Yes,_ John, it's quite obvious, he-"

"But you didn't figure he'd go after me. You got him wrong."

Sherlock went perfectly still, revulsion prodded into his chest. It felt like he just been punched in the stomach.

"...Yes," he admitted, on through gritted teeth. "I got him _wrong."_

John glanced away again, not looking particularly happy at all to have gotten his way. Lestrade, on the other hand, was especially wrong-footed, gone dead silent and not wanting to speak up at all.

Another few moments passed in complete quiet, uncomfortable enough to hear a pin drop on the street below.

"Right," Lestrade coughed again, clearing his throat. Sherlock wondered idly if he ought to offer a cough drop. "This is enough for now, I think. You'll need to sign your statements, both of you, but that can wait. Assuming this stays a Scotland Yard case, what with Sherlock over here trying to sell off classified information to a psychopath."

Sherlock waved him off again, now starting to really get annoyed himself. "It was fake info. Feel free to check it for yourself- the only thing actually classified on there was Mycroft's favorite cake. Strawberry shortcake, by the way."

"Right, that's, uh- good to know. Thanks for that." Lestrade hesitated again by the door, rubbing at his eyes with one hand. He looked ready to drop and not entirely sure what to say. "I'll be off, then. Try and get some sleep, the both of you. And for _god's sake,_ stay out of trouble." He coughed again, his voice low. "Nice... plant. Thing."

_"Calathea lancifolia."_

"Bless you," Lestrade sighed. "Good night."

The sounds of his footsteps down to the street were loud and obtrusive into the silence, the swing of the door shut downstairs nails on a chalkboard. Sherlock stayed curled on his side, squeezed into a ball now so he no longer had to fight the cushions for space, exhaustion and fury and an anxious sort of squirming fear all torn inside his stomach. And John...

John just sat there in his chair, his arms folded and his face grey in the lack of light, and glared into space. For several long moments, he said nothing at all, just chewing on the inside of his cheek and just a shade away from murderous.

Sherlock rolled to face the back of the couch again, bunching his knees close to his chest. Looking at John right now was culminating in an indescribable weight inside his chest, a protective fury and self-loathing disgust and a seething horror that tingled in the very tips of his fingers, the need to snap Moriarty's little neck, and-

And like he'd told Lestrade, he didn't have it in him to do this right now. All he wanted to do was go to sleep.

"Why didn't you let me in on your plan?"

Sherlock buried his face deeper into the cushions. He took in a deep, long breath, inhaling the familiar scent. Is that what the problem was? Really? John was almost killed, several different times in several different ways, and the problem was that Sherlock hadn't let him in on his plan before it had all ended up going awry anyway?

"You weren't supposed to be there. He wasn't supposed to ever touch you."

"Yeah?" He sounded angry again, somehow, his voice warped to be low and threatening, but more than that, Sherlock almost heard an element of hurt. "So, what, then? I'd be left sitting up here knitting a tea cozy, and meanwhile Lestrade is on his way over to tell me you got blown up by a sociopath and I'm never going to see you again?"

"Psychop-"

"Oh, that is _really_ not the salient point here, Sherlock!"

Sherlock snapped his mouth shut, his teeth ground together and his heart in his throat. His fingers kneaded into the old, hideous afghan- a present from Mrs. Hudson- and for god's sake, this wasn't okay. This wasn't okay at all.

He squirmed back onto his other side to wave a white flag all in one. He couldn't quite look at John, so glared into the darkness instead, his fingers still caught together and each breath wrenched through clenched teeth by sheer force of will. "Won't happen again."

John's eyes turned away, his fingers still jittering nervously on his thigh. He clenched his jaw and looked as if he wanted to hit something.

Then, he pushed to his feet, and walked to the kitchen without another word.

It was to be expected, surely. Sherlock's greatest talent was in pissing John off, so it was no surprise that was how this case had ended. It had always been a statistically significant possibility for how any case would end, for how this would _all end,_ someday. Because _all lives end, all hearts are broken,_ and Sherlock was most adept at both. He was not adept at human sentiment, or he was most certainly not adept at making anyone happy.

Before his eyes, John stood in the kitchen, filling a glass of water. He rolled his sore shoulders and shifted his weight, clearly worn out enough to just lie straight back down and not get back up for the next week. He tilted it back for a mouthful, his back to Sherlock and tense enough to make a chiropractor cry.

Then, he turned back around, and crossed the room over to Milgram.

"...John?"

John glanced over his shoulder, and for the first time since Sherlock had wrestled the Semtex vest all the way off, he was smiling, now. A small but definitely genuine smile. "Sherlock," he said, tilting the glass of water. "I learned how to mist and pamper your bloody rainforest plant. I'm pretty sure I'm in this with you for the long haul."

Oh.

"...Oh," he said.

John grinned back, giving Milgram a final nudge. He still looked exhausted, but when he sat down he was alive again, and his words brokered no room for argument. "I just can't be in it for the long haul if you don't actually take me with you, Sherlock."

_...Oh._

_Right, then._

Sherlock inhaled again, still tasting the very faintest scent of ash and sweat and chlorinated pool water. He swallowed, testing out the unfamiliarity and uncertainty of a smile of his own.

"Won't happen again," he swore. This time, he meant it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! <3 
> 
> Next up is Scandal in Belgravia! 
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr!](https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments/kudos!!! This is probably's Sherlock most Not Good chapter. Luckily, John's available as a Sherlock translator ;)

Irene Adler died in a fire, and Sherlock identified desecrated body on Christmas morning.

And for three days after this, Sherlock _suffocated._

There were no cases. Lestrade had threatened to block his number if he kept asking; Sherlock threatened to get a new one. The point was, there were no cases at Scotland Yard, and the ones that the masses were filling his inbox with were so mind-numbingly dull he wanted to kill himself.

Mrs. Hudson was about just frequently enough to be abnormal. She may not've been his housekeeper, but that didn't stop her from popping in on him morning, noon, and night. She made tea, and brought biscuits, and chided at him to _get dressed, young man, it's three in the afternoon,_ and once she even kissed him on the forehead. She asked after him and accepted grunts as her answer, and told him his playing was lovely as he sawed out melodies of the disgustingly melancholy.

And then, there was John. _John._

John was the worst part of it all.

John watched him like a hawk, all because Mycroft told him to. _It's a danger night,_ Mycroft had snipped, and, well, there had gone whatever bits of peace there'd still been left in the flat. John made him eat, sit down and mechanically lift up bites of food and put them in his mouth, he made him go through it all at least _once a day_. John frowned at him from the window whenever he stepped outside for a smoke, ignoring the fact that the only reason he went outside at all was to get away from being stared at like a museum exhibit. John irrecoverably destroyed his entire sock index and didn't even say sorry.

Sherlock was set firmly down on the route to lose his mind, and John was the bloody proximal cause.

"John if you do not cease and desist immediately I swear upon everything that is not holy I will take that hideous jumper and conduct an experiment into the consistency of its ashes."

John, the very picture of innocence in his chair, blinked. He blinked again. He looked utterly surprised, rather than properly threatened. "Cease and desist _what,_ exactly?"

 _"That!_ What you're doing!"

"I'm not doing anything! What am I-"

"You're _thinking!_ Why, I don't know, as it's clearly not doing you the slightest bit of good- cease _immediately_ , John, it's _annoying!"_

John stared on at him again, still looking about as startled as a fish on land. He opened and shut his mouth and the number one thing he didn't do was _stop bloody thinking._

"Oh, _god!"_ Sherlock shouted, tearing his violin out from underneath his chin. It took just about all of his self-control not to throw it and he spun around for the second time, pointing the bow as a sword just to hear it whip through the air. "Will you _get on with it,_ already? This is intolerable!"

"Get on with- get on with what?! I'm not-"

"You've been sitting there for the past two hours, trying to decide whether or not you ought to bring up that you have a date tonight. Frankly, by this point, even I can see it's a bit rude; you should've texted her long ago if you really didn't intend to go." He gave his violin a sharp strum, catching his fingers in the chalky strings, and John just kept on sitting there staring at him and for god's sake, this was _unbearable._ "Go on your date with the boring teacher."

"Accountant now, actually. The teacher broke up with me, remember? Because you couldn't remember her name."

"If your girlfriends only date you because they want to see if I'll remember their names, then I think you're setting yourself up for some extreme disappointment, John." His violin safely settled down and at rest, Sherlock spun back around to flop himself into his own armchair, balled up and curled to rest his chin on his knees and lock his arms tight. It was as secure nest of blankets and restlessness as he could manage, and it wasn't enough.

John stared at him again, torn between confusion and a rising impatience of his own. "And how did you even know I had a date?" he asked, which was perhaps the stupidest line of questioning he could've decided on. "I only met her yesterday at Tesco's, none of this was planned-"

"Oh, _please,_ John." He squeezed his eyes shut, counting to ten. Wasn't sure why. It was something Normal People did, to calm down. All it meant was it was now ten seconds later. _God._

He hated this. He _hated this!_

He sucked in a second breath, and said,"Go. On. Your. Date."

John's clenched jaw twitched, annoyance of his own breaking through at last that damnable patience. He worked his fingers into his chair, three days of silence and tension taking their toll.

And not only on him.

 _"Unless,_ " Sherlock snapped, voice still half-muffled into his knees, "you think she'll only measure up as second best? To yours truly, obviously."

John stiffened, a new light in his eyes. He was increasingly irritated by the second and if Sherlock kept pushing, oh, _oh,_ it was going to be glorious. John was about to question him, it was clear on his face, but Sherlock didn't have the patience to sit there and listen and _wait,_ and he catapulted himself on before John could even get a word in. "It's quite all right; I probably _am_ unparalleled. In making you feel useful, that is. That's what you like, to feel useful. Isn't it?" He smiled again, in a way that was probably a bit cruel, and Not Good. "Keeping an eye on me to make sure all I'm smoking is a cigarette probably helps you to feel infinitely more _useful_ than listening to a woman complain about her last boyfriend that drank too much, hmm?"

At last, the final straw.

John shoved to his feet, his throat working furiously and his eyes gone from clear to stormy in the space of a second. For a second, Sherlock almost expected him to throw a punch, but all he did was haul his jacket up from the arm of the chair. "All right, then," he snapped, shrugging it on, "all right," and it wasn't a surprise at all when the door shut with a slam.

Sherlock huddled himself back into a tighter ball, and shut his eyes.

* * *

He thought about John.

On a date.

With the _boring accountant._

He'd never met this one. He wasn't sure John had ever so much as told him the new one's name. So he pictured Jeanette, instead. He pictured the boring teacher, with her polite mannerisms and inoffensive smiles, the way she told jokes that didn't make the room go dead silent and had never once made anyone at that get-together cry. He pictured John going with her to the movies, to watch something boring and dull and mind-numbing, with a shared mundane popcorn in his lap and his arm worked carefully around her small shoulders. It was dull, dull, _dull,_ and he was nearly thirty years old and still couldn't describe a singularly more horrid way to spend an evening. He would genuinely rather be kidnapped and beaten with a tyre iron.

He would never in his life want to have that. He didn't understand why John wanted it, either, because John did not like boring or mundane things and there was no other word to describe it. But John went on dates anyway and Sherlock hated it, because Sherlock could never do it.

He pictured small, soft shoulders, and long, shiny hair, a someone pretty and soft and curved and _normal._

Sherlock relocated to the sofa instead, his back to the room and his stomach a sour knot.

God _damn it._

* * *

_I require assistance -SH_

_John -SH_

_I require assistance -SH_

_There's an emergency -SH_

_A case -SH_

_Lestrade gave me a case -SH_

_Are you ignoring me? -SH_

_JOHN -SH_

_Fine, there is no case -SH_

_But there is an emergency -SH_

_Come home -SH_

_Come home -SH_

_I require assistance -SH_

_Come home -SH_

_I may have said certain things that were not fully thought out or possibly correct, in a manner that may most accurately be defined as cruel, which was not entirely my intention but while I do apologise it is not -SH_

_JOHN -SH_

_EMERGENCY JOHN -SH_

_Come home -SH_

_Milgram needs watering -SH_

_Remember -SH_

_He needs water every twenty four hours -SH_

_He won't die but it will ruin the results of my experiment -SH_

_You don't want to ruin my experiment do you? -SH_

_Milgram needs watering John -SH_

_I couldn't possibly do it myself -SH_

_Too far away or -SH_

_Yes, that -SH_

_John -SH_

_I know you're going to see a movie -SH_

_Statistics suggest the new superhero film -SH_

_I'll tell you what happens -SH_

_The attractive humanoid alien loses due to a heroic sacrifice from the robot protagonist but both survive -SH_

_I'm supposing he's an alien -SH_

_He wears lots of leather -SH_

_There is at least one romantic subplot (dreadful), one aerial chase, and seven explosions -SH_

_Probably -SH_

_I don't know I'm only prognosticating from the commercials -SH_

_John you are making me theorise about superhero films this is not fair come home I'm sorry -SH_

_Milgram needs you John -SH_

_JOHN -SH_

_Come -SH_

_Home -SH_

_Now -SH_

_John -SH_

_Emergency -SH_

_JOHN -SH_

The door downstairs creaked open, for the second time that night.

More than an hour earlier than Sherlock had expected, and more than two hours earlier than the end of any one of John's average first dates.

Sherlock stowed his phone back into his dressing gown in a surge of almost-panic, the switch in his head flipped rom purpose-driven to post-success-afterglow, and immediately reverted to feigning sleep. Which probably wasn't the smartest move, considered he had been texting John approximately five seconds prior, but- people were idiots. Anything was worth a shot.

Sherlock stayed balled up, and listened.

John's footsteps were heavy and irritated, seventeen rhythmic thumps on the stairs that belied the wounded look on his face from before was not over. He came up to the door and slowed to a halt, just looking, just watching.

Sherlock swallowed.

"Turned my phone back on to some texts, then," he said. "Seventy-three. And counting."

Sherlock sniffed into the cushions. "There was an emergency," he muttered, hunching even smaller.

"Right."

John stayed still in the doorway, watching him in a way that was entirely uncomfortable. Probably would've been uncomfortable, if Sherlock had unfolded enough to see it. He just looked at him for several long moments, then footsteps came again, crossing across the carpet with soft thuds and away from him, traversing to the kitchen.

"Sherlock?" he asked. "Did you... like Irene Adler?"

Sherlock frowned.

That was decidedly _not_ the lead-in he had been expecting.

Confusion winning out over still festering annoyance, Sherlock turned back, actually looking at John for the first time. "Of course," he said, because he wasn't sure what else to do. "She was not-stupid, and very interesting to talk to. Both those qualities are growing increasingly and supremely rare to find in a person, nowadays."

John hmmed to himself, his back still to him. He said nothing at first, passing the slowly filling water glass between his hands. "But you never had dinner with her."

"No. Why on earth would I have wanted to do that?"

"Well, that's generally what people do, when they like somebody, Sherlock," John chuckled. It sounded as if he was saying something very, very obvious, like there was an elephant in the room and Sherlock was the only one to not see it. When he turned back around again, he was smiling, which was definitely _not_ what Sherlock had expected to see tonight, and he crossed over to water Milgram in what might've passed as amusement. "Let me try again. Did you actually like Irene Adler- _that way?"_

"John, I've told you many times, if you persist in speaking with a cultural vernacular, you're going to have to retain a translator."

"Right, because-" John sighed again, shaking his head. "Right." He reverted his attention back to Milgram, measuring out an almost absurdly precise pour of water and then tapping his finger along the table, clearly unsure of how to go on. "I'm asking, because you only seemed to get really annoyed when you off and deduced I had a date. And then your texts, well, they speak for themselves, I think."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Why was John being so _tolerant?_ He was supposed to be irritated, he was supposed to be threatening to leave his phone at home next time he had a date, he was supposed to be threatening to hide his cigarettes and pay the city off to not sell him anymore.

But he couldn't say that, of course, he couldn't say any of that. So all he did was sit even further upright, tugging the wrinkles in his dressing gown straight and straightening all the way up. "If they speak for themselves," he muttered, pushing his wild hair back down into something just approaching tamable, "I think they might need to retain a translator as well."

John hesitated again, still lingering beside Milgram. He looked at Sherlock in a way that was entirely odd and unreadable, his eyes warm, and in a word, he was- unsure. Unsure of himself, and what he was about to do.

"Right," he said again, breathing deeply. "Because it seemed a little- I guess, in a way- I thought you might look at Irene like-"

"Like _what?_ Use your words, John, surely even you can manage that much?"

John's face did a funny thing, again, a cross between amusement and exasperation, and whatever caution he'd had left was thrown to the window. "All right, you arse," he said, crossing the room back to stand right there in front of him, "like _this,"_ and set warm hands on his shoulders, set him in place, and kissed him.

Sherlock's brain sputtered on the off switch.

John kissed him. For one second, two, three. John kissed him for three straight seconds, his hands holding him in place and his mouth soft and hot against his, moving in a way that Sherlock had never experienced before.

Then he pulled back with a sigh he felt against his face, foreheads touching, and, well, that was that.

"Bollocks," John mumbled, through an almost goofy smile. "Sure hope that wasn't a mistake."

Sherlock blinked again. The off switch in the palace sputtered a second time, flickering on and off, like a bad connection or a lightbulb that was on its last legs. "Oh," he fumbled, and damn it, he had never hated sounding stupid more than he had right in that very moment.. "Like _that."_

No, he had most certainly not liked Irene Adler like _that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! <3 
> 
> This takes place in 2012, so the 'attractive humanoid alien' that 'wears lots of leather' (Sherlock's words, not mine!) would be Loki :) Perhaps Sherlock is very transparently trying to tell John he has a type, and that type is leather-wearing dangerous people that walk around giving orders :) 
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr!](https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the comments/kudos!!! One more chapter after this! :D

"This is the worst day of my life."

John made an awkward, small sounding cough. It was unmistakably the noise of someone that was trying very hard not to laugh.

He didn't laugh, no. But it was a very near thing.

Sherlock tried again.

"This is the worst day that anyone has ever lived in the history of recorded time."

John inhaled sharply a second time, suddenly reaching up to rub his face. It was a very transparent attempt to cover a grin with his hand, his eyes bright with brilliant amusement, and it didn't actually cover anything at all.

Sherlock glared.

Third try.

"This is the worst day that anyone has ever lived in the history of recorded time and if you do not save me from it, John, I will _never forgive you!"_

The straw broke the camel's back, and John tilted his head back in his horrid plastic chair, and laughed. He _laughed._ At Sherlock!

Sherlock shuffled back down into his most blatant sulk possible, and reverted to moping.

"Oh my god," John sighed, still a bit breathless, "don't be such a _baby._ It's just a few hours; I am absolutely sure that you'll live."

"That remains to be seen," he sniffed, huddling down even smaller. Perhaps if he looked small and pitiful enough, John would have sympathy after all. "It's _boring,_ John. You want me to sit here for _a few hours?_ It is dull and tedious and boring and my head hurts and it has only been thirty-three minutes!"

John smirked. The look on his face was lovely enough to be unfair, and made even worse by the fact that John really did not seem to have the slightest sense of pity for him _at all._ "Well, Sherlock, that does tend to be what happens, when one takes a baseball bat to the head. Perhaps you'll remember that for next time."

"I thought there wasn't going to be a next time."

"Oh, there's not," John agreed, and his smile was now just this edge of dangerous. "You remembered! Perhaps there's no concussion after all."

Sherlock ducked his head deeper into his cocoon, and considered knocking himself out on the wall.

It really was supremely irritating, when suspects decided to fight back with something other than their fists. How was he supposed to defend himself against a baseball bat? John's gun?

Well. He had defended himself against the baseball bat with John's gun. But that was bit beside the point now, wasn't it?

Sherlock didn't care that their suspect was in a bed down the hall, watched by a constable and waiting for a head scan of his own, with a bruise in the imprint of the barrel of a gun swelling on his forehead. What Sherlock _did_ care about was that he was stuck in the exact same pitiful situation. Constable excluded.

It was one of John's _rules,_ about being Sherlock's live-in physician. Oh, so many _rules._ He'd stitch what needed stitches, he'd deliver antibiotics for infections that needed stamping out- he'd even left the door open for having an oxygen set-up delivered, should Sherlock ever contract a severe cause of pneumonia, bronchitis, or the plague. But he wouldn't treat head injuries. Not before Sherlock had been bullied into accepting an examination at A&E, all to confirm that he wasn't _'bleeding your genius brain out your ears from inside your fractured skull'._

The only word to describe it?

_**Tedious.** _

He. Wanted. To. Go. Home. Right. Now.

_Right now!_

And John wasn't allowing it!

John let out a very long, very fond sigh. "It's only for a few hours," he said again, crouching closer. He gently turned Sherlock's head this way and that, getting a good look at his eyes and the glorious swelling on his own forehead. Sherlock was pretty sure a quarter of his hair was matted together in one blood-crusted clump. "Assuming everything looks good, we'll get everything wrapped up, and then you can come home and whine all that you like from bed, love. I'll even make you tea."

"I don't _whine."_

John laughed again, beaming even brighter than before. "Yes, Sherlock, you do," he said, kissing the unbruised side of his forehead, then an unmatted clump of hair. "You _absolutely_ do."

Sherlock did not like hospital, A&E, paperwork, or regulation. But he did, very much, like kissing.

He let John tug on his hair, very, very gently, gently enough that it didn't even worsen the ache in his head. Sherlock let him, shifting backwards to force John to follow him, to sit down and share the stiff bed with him, to be closer and hold him and kiss his face. There was nothing _wrong_ with him, not really, John was just being excruciatingly careful, but if Sherlock could only tempt him enough...

"Nope," John said suddenly. He smiled warmly, his mouth moving against Sherlock's. "I know what you're trying to do. It won't work."

"But _John."_

John smiled again, his hand tugging on his hair, this time to nudge Sherlock's head to lean against his shoulder. It wasn't quite as nice, but it _was_ warm and steady and soft, and the pressure did relieve the pounding in his head, just a little. Sherlock very quickly found himself content to simply use the warm curve of John's shoulder as a pillow.

"I. Want. To. Go. Home."

"I know, love," John sighed. His fingers combed gently through his hair and he nudged gently again, trying to keep the bandages and the blood turned safely away from his shirt.

"Right. _Now."_

"Soon," John agreed, fond smile on his voice. "Assuming the MRI comes back clean."

Sherlock hid his pout into his shoulder, back curling even more. It wasn't _fair._ He wanted to go home, and bury his head under an ice pack and a collection of blankets, and get tea and Mrs. Hudson's biscuits and curl up in John's lap and not have to move until the headache had gone away.

He wondered if Lestrade would be all that upset if he stopped by the suspect's room on his way room to give him a second knock on the head.

"You'll get me case files," he said into John's shoulder, nuzzling slightly. "The best ones."

"Depending on the results of the head scan."

"Tea, then."

John laughed, a vibration that Sherlock felt into his own hands and chest. "Of course. And you'll drink it, even when you complain that it's missing two milligrams of sugar or the temperature is off by .4 degrees, or whatever nitpicky thing that's wrong with it."

"I don't nitpick. I am _precise._ " Sherlock nuzzled his head into him again, considering. "I won't be able to look after Milgram, obviously. That'll be on you."

"Uhuh. You'll be absolutely, completely, and tragically bedridden. Despite your physician allowing and encouraging all manner of careful physical activity. Unless you discover something you want, of course, th-" John stopped suddenly, the fingers in Sherlock's hair giving an abrupt and angry tug. "Milgram!"

"...Yes, John. Milgram. The _Calath-"_

John pulled back fully and let him go- an incredible, absolute _tragedy,_ as far as Sherlock was concerned- and he rolled his eyes, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I know what it is, Sherlock. Remember? The super rare, expensive rainforest _thing_ that you're always fussing over? Always ordering me all about the city, calling me home from across the country to water the damn thing?"

...Oh.

Oh, _hell._

Realisation dawned. Realisation right in tandem with John, standing up beside the A&E bed to shoulder on his jacket.

"John-" he tried. "John-" He caught his sleeve before he got more than a step away, desperately turning the gears in his pounding head, fishing for some excuse, any excuse at all. But the right words were lost underneath the fuzziness in his head and he had no idea what he was meant to say. "You don't need to-"

"We already missed it yesterday, on that bloody stakeout. And what was that you said, when I was in _Germany_ and you were begging me to come home? If you go more than thirty-six hours with watering it, it'll die?"

"That's- while that may technically be true, for the average _Calathea lancifolia-_ " Oh, no, _no,_ this was not part of The Plan. The Plan wasn't even necessary anymore, clearly, and he should've ended it weeks ago. But John liked the damn thing, and even Mrs. Hudson had said it brightened the place up, and- _no,_ John was zipping up his coat-

"John!" he cried again. "John, wait, you ought to know-" He squirmed closer to the edge of the bed, fingers wound securely into his sleeve to anchor him into place. "Milgram is-"

"For god's sake, Sherlock, sit _down!"_ John securely planted both his hands on his shoulders to settle him back down into the bed, even hauling up the blanket for good measure. He looked amused rather than annoyed, but also absolutely no-nonsense about it, as if these were his orders and Sherlock was _going_ to follow them. "Come on, you'll be fine. It's not even that long of a ride. I'll be back in less than an hour! You can stay put that long."

Sherlock blinked. Shook his head, dusting out the cobwebs. No, _no._ He started again.

"Milgram," he said. "Stanley Milgram. Stanley Milgram was a researcher at an American university in the sixties. Though the ethics of it have now been called into question, the validity of the results have not been, and- and you know I tend to test my theories with experiments, in which- Milgram is most famously known research into obedience to-"

"Sherlock, are you trying to tell me you named our plant after a mad scientist?" John shook his head again, increasingly fond, and leaned in to kiss his hair. "Nobody's surprised. Also, I think you really might be concussed after all. That barely made sense." He leaned back to look closely into his eyes, very close and so very warm, and his smile would've been infectious if Sherlock had had the slightest idea what to say. " _Stay put,_ love. Or I'm giving Milgram to Greg."

Sherlock was left to sit, probably concussed, flabbergasted, and hoisted by his own petard, and John was sent out the door with little more than a cheery smile and a promise to be back soon.

Oh. All right.

Well, then.

He thunked his head into his knees three times, right in a row. Then he sucked in a breath and let out the longest, most despairing moan of his entire life.

This entire venture was now an unquantifiable, abject failure.

A nurse slipped in, just a few minutes later, interrupting him mid-experiment redesign and one very well-deserved sulk. "There you are, dear," she said, still rubbing in the hand sanitizer. "You- oh? What's wrong, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock sunk his head deeper into his arms, and, for the second time in nearly as many minutes, seriously considered ramming his head into the wall.

"I think I might be concussed after all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! <3 
> 
> Hmm. Sherlock seems to be keeping a secret... I wonder what's going on that he hasn't let us and John in on :thinking: 
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr!](https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the ending! Thank you so much to everyone who's commented/kudosed along the way, and I hope you enjoyed!!! Happy tenth anniversary :D

Sherlock tried several times, to put an end to The Plan.

First, he attempted to remove Milgram from public view. It would be simple enough, surely. He would tell John the experiment had concluded, and he had given Milgram to Molly or Lestrade or Stamford or anybody at all who didn't live within the vicinity of Baker Street, and that would be that.

Simple. Flawless. Foolproof!

John came home from the surgery twenty minutes early, just as Sherlock was carrying the thing across the flat.

"It's- ah." Sherlock gulped, forcing out twisted, dreadful approximation of a smile. It probably came out looking like he'd swallowed a lemon. "I require a leaf for one of my experiments."

"Oh. Happy experimenting, then." John brushed by his shoulder and gave the plant a mock, affectionate nudge. "Sorry, Milgram. Hopefully you'll survive the amputation procedure."

Sherlock coughed, and, once again, made a grimace that was akin to swallowing a lemon.

Which was, incidentally, how Sherlock ended up sitting at the kitchen table before his microscope, one severed leaf pinned between a pair of laboratory scissors and held aloft, and-

And feeling just about like the biggest idiot in the world.

* * *

Next, he tried to pawn him off on Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, I couldn't possibly, dear. Not something as hard to take care of as that!"

Sherlock forced a smile, inch by inch. This one felt like pulling teeth. God, how _hateful._ "Oh..." he drawled, hunting somewhat pathetically for the words. "I'm... sure it's not as difficult as you'd think."

But Mrs. Hudson only shook her head again, giving a stack of papers on the desk an organisational shake. A shake in which she came perilously close to Milgram. "After all that I hear John going on about? This thing sounds more work-intensive than a puppy, somedays!"

"Yes, well, I may have exaggerated slightly the-"

"Besides," she told him, headed to the kitchen next. Tea. Tea! "I couldn't possibly take away what's freshening up the place. It's all you two boys have! Dreadful sense of taste, the both of you, I swear..."

Sherlock groaned, and dropped his head back into his hands.

* * *

He considered setting the damn thing on fire.

 _Considered_ it! He didn't actually get as far as doing it, obviously, but- it was a worthy consideration! A controlled fire, of course, designed to look as if an experiment had gotten out of control, and had only claimed Milgram as its casualty. And, possibly, one or two of John's more hideous jumpers.

He discounted this plan, because Mrs. Hudson probably would actually murder him if he burned down her flat for the sake of an 'experiment'.

Also, when he realised Milgram's fire-scorched remains would be even more problematic than Milgram himself, and would solve exactly none of his problems.

* * *

Then, he tried to pawn him off on Mycroft.

"Brother _dear_ , would you like-"

"No."

* * *

He tried to tell John the truth.

(Look at him, now- actually _telling the truth!_ Truly mind-boggling, this caring lark-)

But. Yes. Needs must, after all. After all other options had been exhausted, there was nothing else for it but to tell the truth.

He curled closer around John, one arm wrapped around his stomach and his face pressed to the warmth of John's neck, and began o explain.

"Stanley Milgram conducted an experiment into obedience to authority figures in 1961. As I've said, though you never listen, highly criticised now as unethical, but I'm sure it doesn't surprise you to know that I'm not interested in the ethics of behavioral psychology."

John said nothing. Sherlock took a deep breath, pressing just a little bit closer to John's back.

"It's not a direct parallel, of course. But as you do regard me as an authority figure, in certain, very specific roles, and you are already accustomed to obeying orders, I... determined it would be worth it, to attempt a Milgram experiment of my own."

John, still, said nothing. Sherlock sucked in his lip, lingering over whether or not it was best to describe how carefully he had set-up his requests as anything but _orders,_ then just shook his head. Experimental protocol, to be adjusted as needed. He could explain more later, if John wanted to know.

"I think it prudent to explain- I was not actually experimenting to determine your obedience, John. Rather, I was relying on it. You see. I wished to... provide you with a proper incentive. So as to not leave. You used to do that quite a lot, if you remember. That is what people, in general, tend to do. I simply presumed I might be able to increase the proportion of your time spent at home if I provided a reason for you to be here. Something that required your attentions, so to speak.

"I should likely apologise for the deception. But it was crucially, vitally _important,_ John, do you see? I absolutely could not risk you... going away. Which is, again, what people tend to do. I... John. I am interesting company, and exciting company. But one thing I am not is _good_. Company. People leave. That is what people do.

"But you have... elected to not do that. Which is not something that I predicted. But you have. Meaning my need for Milgram has expired, and my interest in the results of the experiment have waned. I- that is. ...Thank you, John."

John, for several long, impossible moments, did not react at all.

Then, with a long, sleepy snuffle, he rolled back around to his stomach, nestling his slack face even deeper into the pillow. One limp hand smacked Sherlock right across the face.

Sherlock glared.

* * *

When Mrs. Hudson started to use Milgram as a pseudo-Christmas Tree mid-March, hanging little lights and papery ornaments from its stiff leaves and even leaving a biscuit at the base,Sherlock threw up his hands, and gave in the fight.

Clearly, he was never going to manage to evict Milgram. Milgram was a curse and a plague unto this flat, cosmic retribution for the entire experiment being conceived of in the first place, and simply a new fact of life that he had to accept. John was here to stay- and so was Milgram.

"You are a terribly ungrateful creature," he muttered to it one day, when John was very, very safely out of the flat. "You know this. Yes?"

Milgram sat innocently on their shared desk. Sherlock, once again, considered setting it on fire.

* * *

The other shoe did not drop until midway through April, and Milgram's continued existence in their lives had been boiled down to nothing more than an unavoidable fact.

They were at Scotland Yard together, searching through boxes, boxes, and even more boxesof the most hideous organisational system Sherlock had ever had the misfortune to witness. He'd already inhaled enough dust that he was reasonably sure this was what it felt like to die of asphyxiation, and was ensuring to complain loud enough that any passing by officer knew it.

They were on the hunt for case files that had accumulated over the past ten or so years, unsolved (or wrongly solved) homicides that were now looking to be a serial killer. An anomaly in a recent case's bloodwork had stood out to John that morning, and twelve hours later, they were still knee-deep down the rabbithole.

Or they would be, if Scotland Yard had ever heard of a filing system.

Sherlock went at it for most of the day. John went at it for slightly less, taking a break several times to indulge in break room coffee, and, mostly recently, a vending machine sandwich that looked... well, it looked atrocious, but that was what normal people did, wasn't it? They took lunch breaks. So Sherlock continued on his warpath, and meanwhile, John yawned at the table, picking with supreme disinterest through cardboard bread and warm ham.

Until John looked up.

"Milgram!" he cried.

Sherlock ducked immediately right back around another corner.Perhaps if he removed himself from view... perhaps if he simply pretended he had not heard...

"Sherlock!" John called again, even louder than before. "Oi, Sherlock, are you listening? One of us needs to go home."

Perhaps if he hid himself in the corner and made himself down as small as possible and pretended to not exist...

_"Sherlock!"_

Next moment, what felt very distinctly like a crumpled paper ball whacked him on the back of the head.

This entire Plan had been a dreadful idea straight from the start.

Sherlock closed his eyes through a breath, forcibly arranging his most pleasant, socially acceptable smile. All right. _All right,_ he could do this...

"Oh?" he drawled. He even went so far as to pick up the crumpled case notes from the floor. _Oh, John Watson, how I love you..._ "Sorry? Did you say something?"

John rolled his eyes, though he looked so incredibly fond throughout it, Sherlock could hardly bring himself to mind. "One of us needs to go home, you berk," he repeated. "To water Milgram. We've been here since this morning."

"Oh. Yes. Quite." Sherlock swiveled back to the filing cabinet, using his collar to hide his face. "Call Mrs. Hudson. We're busy here, John, it's a _case,_ we can't possibly leave during a _case!"_

"It's eleven at night, and Mrs. Hudson is in her seventies."

"So?"

"So I'm not waking up an elderly woman in the middle of the night just because you can't be arsed enough to keep a house plant alive!" John set about crumpling his sandwich wrapper next, very likely in case he decided he needed another projectile weapon. "You know what? No. I'm not going, this time. You are."

Was this karma? Sherlock derided the very existence of the so ridiculously fanciful, and determinably unprovable, but- what other answer was there? He was a good person. By... some very strict, limited definition but- still! A good person! He solved crimes for the incompetent; he didn't deserve this!

Sherlock kept his smile forcibly arranged, twisted and fake and dragged through molasses. It felt like he was chewing glass. "If you truly insist, then perhaps-"

"I do! I do _insist!_ If you can call me across international borders for it, you can at least manage a fifteen minute taxi ride. I'm pretty sure I've taken care of him more than you have!" John rolled his eyes again, flapping an especially thick file in his direction. "Besides, I'm better at interpreting the bloodwork than you."

 _Oh,_ this was a step too far, now. Ordered back home to look after their supposedly fragile house plant, he could take, but now insulting his detective work?! Even if it was, perhaps, technically true, that John knew what they were looking for better than Sherlock himself-

But the discussion was already closed. John was back to reading through the fat file, tracing the words with a pen, in a silence that very much demanded that Sherlock get moving. And if he did not get moving, there was still a crumpled paper ball under his hand, primed and ready to be thrown.

Sherlock huffed under his breath, and sunk into the earliest beginnings of a disbelieving sulk.

He could go outside for a smoke. A... very long, questionably relaxing smoke.

He could track down Lestrade, and attempt to sway him towards handing over another case file. Hiding in his office for half an hour would be easy enough.

He could count the ceiling tiles upstairs and fully categorise the different species of toxic mould in the break room.

He could knock himself out on the ceiling fan.

"Sherlock?"

"John," he sighed. He turned to face John head on, squeezing a hand over his face, drawn up to his full height, and breathed in a long, preparatory breath. "Milgram is not real."

Several seconds ticked by. Silence. John stared at him, unblinking, and said nothing.

"Um." John laughed faintly, a cross between startled and utterly lost. "What?"

"Milgram is not real, John. He is a plastic plant."

Several seconds ticked by again.

"...Sherlock, are you trying to tell me you killed our house plant for an experiment and replaced it with a plastic one instead?"

Oh, for the love of-

"I've explained it to you before! _Countless times,_ John, it is hardly my fault that you do not _listen,_ I can not- it was an experiment! The Milgram experiment, John, do you not _listen?_ God!" He paced forwards and back, reaching up to all but tear his own hair out. "But I could hardly use a real plant! Do you realise how many times we would've killed a real plant, by now? No! Milgram would be dead seventeen times over! Imagine the massacre, my god!"

"Sherlock, _what-"_

"It was _fake,_ John," he moaned, sunk down to the table with a miserable thud of his own. He covered his face with his hands, as pitiful as a genius consulting detective could look. "Of course it was fake. A wilted, dead plant would provide no incentive whatsoever towards giving you a reason to not leave."

John sat back to gape at him. He blinked numbly, utterly at a loss for words, and for several moments seemed incapable of making any sound at all.

 _"Sherlock,"_ he rasped again. He made a slow, quickly aborted reach for his hand, and he even sounded a little sad. "You can't really think-"

He stopped.

For the third time in as many minutes, a long, very pointed, dead silence spread.

"Sherlock," he repeated. " _Love."_

Sherlock looked up.

John was smiling again. A small and dangerous smile, the one that wasn't quite a smile at all, and instead was entirely ex-army doctor that would be a fatal mistake to cross. He reached out to trap Sherlock's fingers in his own, a deceptively warm grip that was perhaps most accurately likened to a bear trap.

Sherlock gulped.

"Are you telling me. That you have called me home from dates, out of work, and across countries... that you have sent me _hundreds_ and _hundreds_ of text, _whining_ for me to come home because you couldn't be bothered to move three feet... that you have stood by, and with your own two eyes watched me water a _fake plant.._. _**for a year?"**_

Sherlock gulped again.

"...Happy... anniversary?"

* * *

Milgram never would be removed from Baker Street. He would, instead, stand as a permanent icebreaker and testament to the life and ways of Sherlock Holmes (and, more than once, would be utilised as a heavy club against criminals that tried to raid the flat).

He would also stand as a testament to the day that Sherlock Holmes was chased out of Scotland Yard by one extremely irate John Watson, whacked about the shoulders with a snapping case file, all to the irresistible screeching tune of, _"One year, Sherlock! ONE YEAR!"_

__

[(Artist: Akarri)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akarri/pseuds/Akarri)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by what appears to be a multifandom incorrect quote-
> 
> Character A: FOUR MONTHS
> 
> Character B: what's he talking about?
> 
> Character C: it's not that big a deal-
> 
> Character A: YOU STOOD BY AND WATCHED ME WATER A FAKE PLANT FOR F O U R MONTHS
> 
> ^_^
> 
> [A bonus sketch of Milgram, this time complete with Sherlock and John!](https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/post/623270286748434432/and-a-bonus-from-akarri)
> 
> All right! I'll probably be a bit scarce for a few weeks, my next trick is looking to be quite messy- but I will be back! This time, with more of your regularly scheduled angst programming! A small preview, of what I'm working on for next...
> 
> "Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?"
> 
> Hope to see you then! Feedback is welcome and always appreciated!!! <3


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